* * * *
He finally managed to sleep through the night and set some rabbit snares that morning made from whittled stakes and twine. He still carried some bits of dried apple for bait. Before noon, he had caught a small red hare. He skinned it and made a fire, cooked it, and it was just enough to sate his groaning belly. He drank water from his skin when he heard the approach of clopping horses from down the road.
Clearly, they would see the smoke column billowing up into the sky from what was now just smoldering coals in his fire. He strapped his sheath to his side. He had yet to don his armor. He usually only did so before setting out on the road. It eliminated the need to carry it, and he felt it gave him some support and prevented a little back pain from spending hours in the saddle.
He positioned himself behind a tree shrub and watched as six riders emerged clad in red steel armor and wearing black tabards with the crest of Red Wolf in the center, a snarling visage of a wolf's head with a sword in its teeth. The last rider had his horse hitched to a cart loaded with armored dead. These were indeed Guardian Knights of Red Wolf Keep, though there was no sign of Squire Phillip or any squires for that matter. As they began to pass, he noticed many of the mounted riders hunched over with dents and holes in their armor. A couple of the horses seemed to have some fresh shallow wounds on their exposed muscles. They rode slowly and steadily which was smart on wounded horses. They were lucky to have made it this far.
Quickly, Ivanos mounted Velvet and rode out to meet them. "Ahoy, brave knights! Welcome home! Might I trouble you for a word? Please?"
The knight pulling the cart reined and turned in his saddle to get a look at Ivanos. The knight had a long-braided goatee and long wisps of blond hair skirting his bald speckled head. Creases around his eyes and mouth aged him in his fifties. His small eyes squinted in the sun, and he raised a hand to shade them. "Who are you? We are weary of battle and bringing home those lost to bury in honor." He pointed to the cart behind him.
Ivanos could clearly see there were at least eight bodies stacked two high over it. Many missing limbs and at least three without heads which he didn't see anywhere loose in the cart. "My condolences, my lord." Ivanos made a slight bow. "My name is Ivanos Jorganaut. I am looking for Squire Phillip. He hired me to fulfill a request so that I might speak with his knight or any knight. I see you are in need of rest and I will not trouble you with my company further if you could get a word to him that I have returned with his request fulfilled."
The knight peered ahead at the rest of his caravan who were leaving him behind on the road. Then his nostrils flared, and he looked back at Ivanos. "Squire Phillip is still at the war front with Sir Kellumvor. There are still about a hundred knights fighting the trogs on the banks of the Rusted Sea near the port city of Nodet. I can't say when either of them will return. Sir Kellumvor is a stubborn sort who refuses to take leave when he needs to take rest. And I don't see this assault being over soon. There were hundreds of them landed in longships to invade and make their way to Red Wolf Keep. We've only been able to hold them for a few days, but our numbers dwindle." The old knight waved away flies strayed from the swarm buzzing over the cart and collecting on his goatee. "Perhaps come to the keep tonight. I believe there's to be a festival. One of the knights might grant you an audience after he's rested and marinated with some good wine and roasted pig."
Ivanos smiled at this. "I might just do that, sir knight, and thank you!"
He nodded. "Sir Haggis. And I'll see you tonight then. Savior Samuel be with you!" And he heeled his horse onward down the road.
"Thank you, Sir Haggis!" Ivanos shouted back.
KILL THEM. TAKE THEIR CASTLE FOR US TO RULE.
8
VENDRONIA
"Bring out the stained cuckgirl! Get her out here now! Tell her to bewitch our blades! We are getting butchered out here!" It was Adon, Varl Torvul's Sworn Fist. His voice carried every marker of a man in fear of his own mortality, which Vendronia had never heard from him. Trogs rarely expressed fear. He had used another nickname she hated. Cucks were what trogs called the short races. It meant weak and delicate, but for trogs it also meant short like a woman. Most trog adult women were between six and seven-foot in height. Trog men grew to be eight to nine foot in adulthood.
Vendronia gathered up her ritual components from her small area on the Varl's longship and stepped out onto the rocky shore of the Rusted Sea to aid the attack on Nodet. The crashing waves sprayed her bare legs and soaked her black leather skirt with a cold misted wind. She shivered and took a deep breath to recover before she stepped farther. Finding secure flat pieces of the fragmented shale proved challenging immediately. She had to hold up her skirt with one hand while carrying her ritual roll pack in the other.
Adon's command had made her stomach churn. She had already blessed their weapons before the assault and anointed all the warriors beneath their eyes with red caribou blood. This should have been enough to ensure victory. She was at a loss about what more she could do, especially while they were all still engaged in the fight. She could hardly go to each one of them and anoint their weapons. She thought seeing her engaged in a ritual or making her witchcraft gestures and shouting words of vigor would inspire their morale and give them courage.
As she scrambled her way up the craggy banks of Nodet, she saw several broken cuck arrows scattered about the rocks where they had landed and snapped. No cucks had broken through the trog line of warriors yet. The raid was going well. The beach stood void of bodies; the incoming waves clear of blood. When she pulled herself up to the top of a cresting boulder, she immediately heard the noise of battle in the distance. She looked back down behind her and lost her footing briefly from vertigo. If she fell backward, it would mean certain death. She had watched hundreds of trog warriors make the same trek up these rocks. On the deck of the longship, it didn't look so dangerous.
For surprise, the raiding plan had been to bank twenty-three longships to the north of Nodet's actual fishing port. Trogs did not see rocks as much of an obstacle. They were also a third taller than cucks, so it didn't seem as high up to them.
A stiff breeze fretted her dreadlocks as she rose to face the land. The air filled her nostrils with the raw coppery odor of blood. She dropped her ritual pack and stood hunched over to recover, winded from the climb. She finally sat down on the rock and got out her incense bowl, placed it in front of her and began drawing out the runes for the Watcher with chalk. The battle took place about a hundred feet inland. A clamor of axes, swords, and pikes with screams and trog war cries resonated across the grass and echoed back from the buildings of Nodet. She did see many bodies trailing from the city gates. The Red Wolf Knights had been waiting for the trog invasion. Someone had tipped them off and sent for them. They had arrived just after the trog ships.
She needed to act fast for the raiding trogs to still be able to see her, the sun was falling in the west behind her and dusk would come soon.
Vendronia took out her dagger and scraped at the back of the blade with her flint, sparking the bit of tender over the incense to smoldering. She began reciting the words to summon the Watcher to protect them. She shouted and screamed between incantations, hoping Torvul and his warriors might look back and see her there strengthening them. She did see a few trog faces looking back to and pointing her out to their fellow warriors. This caused her to increase her shouting. She exaggerated her hand gestures, waving her arms wide. She stood up and began to smack her sandals down on the rock with each word, bringing her knees up high.
Soon she heard the trogs respond. They began singing the war song, shouting in unison in the ancient trog tongue. To hear it sang by an army of trogs in battle was such an emotionally charged fury of conviction, it made the hairs stand on Vendronia's arms every time she heard it. She knew the words. She felt compelled to scream along with them:
"Tenu Rokruru! Tenu Rokruru! (I live, I die! I live, I die!)
Belmat randuru! Bim Gragu! Bim Mat! (It matters not! For
glory! For might!)
Tenu chim Blatta Gor! (I bite as the wolf!)
Tenu chim Razka Montor! (I claw as the bear!)
Tenu shakit chim Brot! (I scream as the boar!)
Tenu pleet gug neeshi um kazu muta! (I stomp my enemies and make them my dogs!)
Tenu o trog! Tenu o trog! (I am trog! I am trog!)
Nim mat tu hi! (Nothing can stand in my wrath!)
Tenu blut ku yat! (I bleed you out!)
Tenu posim gug nob ti gu prim!" (I take your head for my trophy!)
The trog warriors' hammers, axes, and swords clanged louder with their enthusiasm. Soon, the Red Wolf Knights on horseback pulled back. Many of their fellow riders' horses had been cut from under them. The trog longbow archers lined up behind the melee launched waves of raining arrows into the sky. They pushed the Red Wolf knights back at least fifty feet, and the ground stood littered with their fallen men and horses.
A blur of movement caught Vendronia's eye as she kept up the chant. From within a deep crack in the rock under her feet, four black hairy legs extended out and grabbed at the surface rock. A spider as big as her hand crept out from the rock fissure and held itself still for a long moment. She tried to keep up the chant, but her disposition dwindled. She bit her bottom lip and missed some words, and her voice lowered in intensity. She found herself stepping back, no longer stamping her feet. She told herself to resist the fear she had never conquered. The trogs needed to see her being brave. She tried to muster her anger to confront the spider head on, but she kept having flashbacks of the spiders crawling on her in the cave as a child. She didn't know if they were real memories, but the images were stored in her mind, nonetheless. She had an unexplainable fear of spiders.
She raised her voice in her chant again and stooped over towards the spider as if speaking to it.
It began to move towards her, its eight legs kicking up and dropping in pairs.
She continued, unflinching. Let it come to her.
A flash of bright green light lit up the sky above the city of Nodet. Someone had shot up a signaling arrow from within. She knew the significance of the color meant something, but not exactly what. She glanced down at the spider. It was close now. Her legs trembled. They wanted to run. Another army began flooding out from the gates of Nodet then, mostly men, but all equipped with a varied assortment of makeshift weaponry such as shovels, scythes, pitchforks, and pickaxes. A few carried swords. It seemed the city of Nodet had banded together a small army of its citizens to defend the trog raid.
The spider stopped an inch in front of her sandals then and put one tiny clawed leg on her big toe.
The ragtag army from Nodet attacked the trogs from a southern front, catching them off guard and plowing into their ranks, spilling blood.
She looked down at the spider, and she thought about something the King of Scion had said to her. That he would grant her power, something about insects. She didn't remember exactly, but she needed to do something now, even if it was crazy. She had to protect her people. It didn't matter if they didn't accept her. They were all she had.
She reached down, closed her eyes and snatched up the spider in her hand and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing quickly to keep it from biting her. The texture was awful. She swallowed the prickly ooze and began choking immediately. Her stomach wrenched inside her, and she felt her bowels water. She tried to chant again but was cut off by heaving and gagging. She felt movement inside her. A painful knot rose up her chest and lumped in her throat. She began to vomit then. It came out in a stream of sticky white sludge that dripped down to the rock and dried up into a puffy looking substance. She dared to touch with her fingers and noticed when she pulled away it had attached to her fingertips in the form of a strand of web. Tiny black dots moved inside the web. Millions of them, and they were growing unnaturally fast.
Within seconds, they were swelling inside the mass on the rock and crawling away from her towards the battle. Thousands and thousands of spiders grew to the size of her hand and marched across the grass, blackening it out completely. She stood in shock watching it unfold. After a while, she realized some of them had reached their victims. Red Wolf knights began to scream and toss off pieces of their armor in a frenzy. The militia from Nodet were scattering and fleeing, some of them dropping dead before they made it back to the city. Trogs were killing more by the minute as the knights shed their armor. It wasn't much longer before someone in the Red Wolf army blew the horn of retreat.
Vendronia could see Varl Torvul staring back at her then alongside Adon who also stared motionlessly. It seemed not a single trog had been harmed by the swarm of spiders.
Varl Torvul held up his ax and shouted, "Crone Mother! Daughter of the Witch God!" With that the entire body of trog warriors both bloodied and unscathed bowed in Vendronia's direction. Then they all stood and began to sing the war song in her honor, shouting in unison at the top of their lungs and pounding their chests in a beat in cadence with the words. The spiders continued to drop Red Wolf knights in the distance. Some fell from their horses as they were fleeing. Over half the citizens of Nodet who had taken up arms against the trog had fallen before they had made it into the city.
9
KAZIMIR
"We stand as witness to the crimes of this ravnaz bloodskin, Glorin Baal, who has lived up to the reputation of his race as a vile murderous lot of corrupt moral character!" Xolin announced as Utar the vizir-priest. Xolin played the role of Utar, one of three judges in the Trial of the Bloodskin, a theatrical production written by Dolfus Armonia the Righteous Pariah. It was one of many scrolls Kazimir had unearthed from an ancient cellar he and his apprentices had excavated from beneath the ruins of the ravnaz city of Jinxipetus on the western coast of Belaz. He selected this one to demonstrate the often-forgotten past cruel bigotry of Belazonian ancestors.
"Does the accused have any more witnesses to call forth to make a case for his innocence?" said Nochtli as Beldanor, one of the other three vizirs presiding over the trial. He wore a green burlap hood over his head with only the eyes cut out beneath a gold crown made of painted paper mache. Sitting next to him on the back of the stage were the other two judges customary for the aergos people of the old world. Kazimir hoped the Belazonian crowd they had drawn from the bustling market square would be curious enough about the old world to keep them a captive audience.
Kazimir stood dressed in the bloodskin costume custom-made for him. It consisted of a turquoise long-sleeved tunic with large cuffs adorned with hundreds of tiny beads of bone, and beneath it, turquoise pants with ties at the knees and ankles. Kazimir cleared his throat and delivered his lines in his best attempt at the written description of a ravnaz accent, laced with rasping inflections. "How could I? There are no ravnaz in the audience, none in the seat of justice, none in the royal Septs' council? How will any of your race speak for me when they don't have the red skin?"
Nochtli as Beldanor said then, "Rodinna judges all races equally, as we do of those accused. You agree not that the bloodskins fill the dungeon cells and receive the sentence of the Sea Death more often than ravnaz bloodskins or any other race of man or woman?"
"What the fucks this supposed to be? No poetry?" called out a member of the thirty or so denizens of the Belaz City market that had accumulated to watch the show. "Theatrics is supposed to have rhymes!"
The Belaz City Market bustled with all sorts this evening: traders, peasants, farmers, mummers, foreigners, sausage vendors, sculptors, painters, and every kind of artist and crafts makers one could hope to encounter. It was often cited as one of the largest and most wondrous in the East world. One could easily spend all day traversing its maze of peddlers and artisans still only encounter half of what it had to offer.
"No coin in your tip-hat without poems!" came another heckler, this time a young peasant girl with only stubble on her head.
Kazimir glanced up to the crowd out of character for a moment and sighed. "Apologies," he whispered, but loud enough for those cl
ose to the stage to hear, with a bow. "This is an actual representation of the historical account as written no doubt hundreds of years past. I don't think the poetic prose became popular until much later."
"Well, maybe you should've rewritten it with rhymes, then!" cried out the first heckler as he turned and walked away still speaking to himself his distaste for the free entertainment.
Kazimir went on with his next line, "That is because of the years of persecution we have suffered under aergos tyranny. How can we not resort to crime and otherwise questionable morality when we are not allowed education or jobs that pay enough coin to provide for our children. Our men are slaves and our women slain by the age of conception."
"Because they are witches! An abomination to the gods!" quipped Xolin, pacing now before the dais on which Kazimir stood. Xolin's costume consisted of white canvas robes embroidered with hundreds of tiny gray diamond shapes customary of the ancient Belazonian aergos whose skin was said to be a darker bronze. Xolin had refused to paint his skin entirely, but he had compromised and opted to paint his face white with the image of a skull with red eye-sockets. "You know this! Your women are cursed by the demon Xuca when they bleed. They become cannibals, eating their husbands and feeding on men to power their wicked magic!"
Xolin's performance of Utar gave Kazimir chills. He couldn't help but break character for a second and flash Xolin a quick smile before returning his expression to one of solemn dismay. "Fairy tales," he said as Glorin Baal. Xolin had often shown amazing acting skills. Kazimir felt competent with his own performance, but often doubted it was as good a Xolin's. "This is twisted aergos propaganda given as an excuse to murder our women. A covert campaign for genocide and the extinction of all ravnaz. It is known."
The Vanguards of Scion Page 5